


Blackout

by discothequey



Series: After Dark [2]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discothequey/pseuds/discothequey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>Nocturnal Children</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackout

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone. I will be gradually reposting some of my fiction over here as I rework/edit and update it. I don't know how long it will take, but I do plan to finish everything in the future (including and especially my WIPs). If you'd like to read everything as-is, you can find my work on LJ @ discofabuleux.

Justin heard the scratching of fingernails digging into the gaps in the trellis before he saw Brian. He smelled spilled alcohol and cigarette smoke before the window opened and a ragged teenager climbed in. He felt the air change, tasted saltiness and chemical substances before the covers flipped back and Brian was sliding underneath, already stripped down to his underwear.

"You need to stop," Justin whispered, turning on his side, blinking at his best friend, his worst enemy, Brian fucking Kinney with sweat-streaked hair and black and blue marks on his jaw.

Brian didn't respond. He shoved Justin until he was facing the other way and wrapped his arms around him from behind. He kissed the back of his neck, sniffed the clean skin, warm skin, skin that smelled like Ivory soap, and held on.

"Let's run away," he whispered, sliding his chilled fingers up under Justin's T-shirt and across the warm, flat belly he found there. "Run away. To fucking New York. Always wanted to go to New York."

Justin shrugged, shivering against Brian’s cold hand. It was almost three in the morning, Justin was tired, Justin wanted to go back to sleep, Justin didn't want to deal with this. Again. Deal with this _again_.

"You hear me?" Brian whispered, slipping his hand further up, until his fingers were splayed out across Justin's chest. He wanted to climb inside Justin's T-shirt, right where it was warm and safe and smelled like soap and skin, and hide there until he was eighteen and could go do whatever the fuck he wanted. Leave his goddamned parents, his drunken mother, abusive fuck of a father, and seventeen-year-old sister who still chopped her arms up with razorblades and cutlery and blamed it on her poor, pitiful life. He'd lie flat against Justin's chest, bury into his skin like a parasite, and stay there, cocooned by an old Dartmouth T-shirt and two pale, skinny arms that held him like a baby.

“I hear you,” Justin exhaled, twisting the corner of his bedsheet in his fingers and trying to make that body behind him—the warm chest against his back, the frozen feet tangled up in his, the carefully stroking fingers sliding nonchalantly across his hardening nipples—go away. He closed his eyes, wanting Brian to be anywhere else but there, anything but broken and bruised, drunk and reeking of stale cigarette smoke and latex bandages.

“Go to sleep,” he said, attempting to ignore the hand moving from his chest to his lower stomach, right at the waistband of his drawstring pajama pants. It stilled, not daring to go further, but the heat of it, the sheer weight of another person’s hand touching skin that was usually only touched by Justin, made his bones tingle.

Justin shrugged Brian away, moving into the cold, untouched side of the bed.

“Hey, come back.” Brian’s voice was gruff, tight and tired like guitar strings plucked too often. He shivered in his underwear, fuzzy legs shaking beneath the blankets but chest warm, belly warm, heart warm. His cheeks were cold. Cold and blue.

Justin made no move to return, so Brian twisted onto his back, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his friend’s ceiling and wishing they were real.

*****

Justin awoke to the scent of cigarette smoke, faint as if carried by an ocean breeze. He stretched, growing legs extending until his toes bumped the footboard of his childhood bed, and opened his eyes, gaze immediately focusing on the half-naked boy perched on the sill of his open window, smoking a stolen cigarette with stained fingers and swollen lips.

“Morning,” Brian offered, turning briefly to watch the figure rise from the bed.

Justin didn’t answer. He got up, straightened his pajamas, and walked on unsteady feet over to the window. The slightest smell of cigarette smoke would get him in trouble, the tiny flakes of ash on the hardwoods under the window would spark an interrogation and lecture, but Justin didn’t say anything. He let Brian smoke because it made him calmer, not as edgy. It made Justin like him more.

“We’re going to the movies today,” Brian said suddenly, crushing the remainder of his cigarette on the windowsill and dropping the butt off the side of the house.

Justin sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Thought we were going to New York,” he replied with an air of sarcasm. His tongue felt thick and dry like a jagged piece of sidewalk chalk.

Brian climbed off the sill and grabbed Justin by the hand, pulling him against his chest. “Changed my mind.”

They stood there for a while, pressed together, warm summer air flowing in the open window and dancing across their skin. Neither boy spoke, just listened to inhales and exhales, hearts beating in discord. Justin wrapped his arms around Brian’s waist and shivered when lips touched the top of his head, but froze when hands began to pull up his shirt.

“Mm,” he hummed, stepping back, cheeks reddening. “Don’t.”

Brian’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You mad at me?”

Justin shook his head no and moved over to his closet, where he began to push through a wall of khaki and navy in order to find his weekend attire.

“Then c’mon. I wanna do that thing again.”

“Mom’ll find out,” Justin said, yanking a gray T-shirt off a yellow plastic hanger. Grabbing a pair of folded jeans from where they were stacked on his closet floor, he stepped back out into the main room and tossed everything onto his bed.

Brian shut the window with a gentle thump, mouth fixed in a straight line. “She won’t. I promise she won’t. She didn’t last time, did she?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Justin swallowed the pool of nervous spit collecting in his mouth and shrugged. “Just don’t want to.”

“You’re no fun,” Brian said, voice hard and straight like a wooden arrow. He snatched his jeans, discarded on the floor the night before, and pulled them on, eyeing his friend the entire time. “What’s the point in having a gay best friend if you can’t…play every once in a while?” He cocked his eyebrow in what would one day become his trademark fashion, and smirked.

Justin was not amused. He turned away, his back to Brian, and changed clothes in silence.

*****

Jennifer Taylor swallowed down the rest of her coffee, grimacing at the lukewarm liquid that tasted like four packets of sugar substitute, and with one hand, fiddled with the knob on the oven.

Molly was running around, sandaled feet slapping against the hardwood floors, chatting quite animatedly to “Lily,” her imaginary friend, on a pink plastic telephone.

Eight o’clock was too early, Jennifer thought, setting down her empty mug and giving the cinnamon toast a quick survey. Too early for a forty-year-old woman with a vivacious six-year-old daughter and a pubescent son of questionable sexuality, who was currently in his room with someone else’s pubescent son of questionable sexuality doing God knows what.

She sighed, shoving her hand in a quilted mitt, and reached in the oven for breakfast.

It wasn’t like the old days, when Justin—her sweet, tiny son in striped pajamas—would come barreling into the kitchen, asking if Brian could “come over” for breakfast, only to leave and return with him in ten seconds flat. Now, Brian was the one who barreled into the kitchen, skinny legs and arms too long for his torso, bruises on his jaw, cracking voice asking faux-sweetly, “What’s for breakfast, Mom?”

He was dressed in a pair of jeans that had become small two growth spurts ago and a white T-shirt reading, “Smiths is Dead.” The look of him—that naughty, tortured, beautiful boy—made Jennifer want to both cuddle him tightly to her chest and kick him out of the house.

But she didn’t do either of those. Instead, she smiled as genuinely as possible, motioned toward the cinnamon toast cooling on the counter, and asked him how he’d slept.

Brian ducked his head a little at that, cheeks flaming up, and shrugged, sauntering over to grab a clean plate from the dish rack.

Yes, Jennifer definitely wanted to cuddle him, even if she _was_ fairly certain that he was both a fourteen-year-old smoker and her son’s boyfriend.

When Justin finally appeared, Brian had already consumed three pieces of toast and half a carafe of juice.

“Morning, sweetie,” Jennifer said, trying to kiss Justin's cheek as he passed, only to be gently shrugged away.

Justin made a beeline for the chair across the table from Brian and plopped down, automatically grabbing four pieces of toast with his bare hands and dropping them onto a plate. Though he was apparently unable to offer his mother a “good morning” in return or even so much as a cheek to be kissed, Justin had no trouble asking for milk instead of OJ because the juice was “that fake Tropicana stuff.”

“Hi,” Brian said in monotone, a bored expression on his face.

Justin rolled his eyes in reply and accepted the carton of milk his mother handed him without so much as a "thank you."

*****

Though it was a relatively warm morning, a cool, light drizzle began to fall from the sky after breakfast, right after the boys stepped outside to go for a walk around the neighborhood.

“Great,” Brian said, turning his face up to the rain and scrunching his nose as droplets landed on his skin. He stuck out his tongue, catching raindrops as he forced a breathy laugh out his nose.

Justin was quiet, doing nothing but crossing his arms over his chest and watching his feet as they moved across the slowly speckling sidewalk.

“What’s wrong with you?” Brian asked him, using the front of his Smiths shirt to dry his face.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“Well, it is.” Justin sucked a tiny strawberry seed from between his front teeth.

“Are you pissed at me for wanting to-”

“No.”

Brian groaned in frustration, grabbing the back of his neck and rolling his head from side to side, working out the kinks.

“You just bother me sometimes,” Justin whispered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “With the stuff you do.”

“What do I do?”

“Last night.”

“Huh?” Brian raised an eyebrow, reaching over to tug a strand of Justin’s hair.

Justin pulled away, fingers clenching and unclenching in his jean pockets. “What’d your dad do to you last night?”

Brian clenched his jaw, teeth biting teeth to pain.

They followed the sidewalk until it ended at the iron gates with the neighborhood welcome sign and stopped, both boys standing there, stone still like two dead fourteen-year-olds.

“I think my mom knows,” Justin said randomly, quietly, sitting down on the edge of the sidewalk and pulling Brian down with him.

“About what?”

“Us.”

Brian sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and bit down, leaving gentle pink marks on his skin. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

Justin stared for a long time at the raindrops on his sandals before murmuring, “I mean, I think she knows we’re…”

“Gay.”

“Yeah.”

Brian leaned backward until he was splayed flat on the sidewalk and Justin turned to stare at him—at the skinniness of his arms, the gentle curve of his now slightly apparent Adam’s apple, the still-smoothness of his face where one day a beard would grow.

Four years ago he would’ve climbed on top of Brian and laughed right in his face, so close that he’d smell the rainwater on his skin. Now, Justin leaned back beside him, only their elbows touching.

“Remember when we were younger?” Brian asked, as if reading Justin’s mind.

They lay there for what felt like forever, until a police officer pulled up and asked if everything was all right.

“Yeah,” Justin said, moving to his feet and dusting off his clothing. “Everything’s fine.”

*****

When the boys returned to the house later on, chewing their lips and scuffing dirty sandals across the polished hardwood floors, they found Mrs. Taylor on the phone, speaking in a low voice as she twisted the phone cord nervously around her index finger.

Justin pressed his lips together and refused to look at Brian.

"Honey?" Jennifer called, holding the phone against her chest and motioning for her son to come over. "Justin, it's-"

Justin shook his head no and slipped off silently into the living room and toward the stairs, fluid like silk sheets sliding across skin.

Brian watched Jennifer for a moment, watched the way her eyes clouded like something fell down right out of her eyelids. He moved slowly over to the refrigerator, grabbed a can of Pepsi, and gnawed the insides of his cheeks as he walked past on his way toward Justin. He'd seen that look too many times. He knew it by heart.

Justin was on his bed, flopped on his stomach and stretched out like a starfish. His shirt rode up in the back, revealing three inches of soft, smooth flesh that Brian stared at as he popped the tab on his soda can and took a loud, slurping sip.

"My dad's still a million times more fucked up than yours," he uttered, wiping his mouth off on his bare arm.

Justin shrugged, bringing his arms in and folding them up under his chin. "I don't care about my dad."

"I don't care about mine."

It was hot in the room, the creaking ceiling fan not doing much to circulate air, so Brian slammed his Pepsi down on Justin's desk and went over to open the window. It was stuffy, like he couldn't breathe. Like the air weighed ten pounds even though it was supposed to weigh nothing.

"Dad's so fucking stupid," he whispered, taking a seat on the window sill and sighing at the feel of cool, drizzly air slapping at his back. "Last night... Last night he came in, all drunk and shit, and started trying to get me to tell him where the money is." Brian shook his head, mouth curved up into a strange smile. "And I wouldn't."

Justin propped his head up on his arm and stared at his friend. "So what'd he do?" He asked cautiously, through barely even a breath.

"Just the usual stuff." The kid shrugged, grabbing at his own arms in some sort of self-hug before breaking into a wide, painful grin. "But he ended up getting this idea that Mom kept it in the pantry, way up high, so he got a chair and started...searching and stuff, pulling shit off the shelves and throwing it on the kitchen floor." Brian swallowed, digging his nails into the skin of his biceps until pink marks appeared in the flesh. "And it was so fucking funny because he lost his balance and fucking...fucking _fell_. I was...I was..." He trailed off, amused expression dissolving in a matter of seconds. "I was laughing. Laughing when I left."

Justin twisted onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, watching the fan spin lazy circles. His teeth were slick with saliva that tasted like raw nerves, and he didn't want that anymore. He didn't want to taste it. As he rolled his eyes to the side, fixing his gaze to the right, he saw Brian climb off the sill and walk slowly, unsteadily like a young child over to the bed, staring burning holes through the tops of his red Chuck Taylors.

He climbed up, joining Justin on the bed, and curled against his side. The boys didn't speak.

Justin felt hot breath against the skin of his neck and the heaviness of a limp arm flopped across his belly. He swallowed that nervous-metal-spit and closed his eyes as a pair of lips touched him right on the jaw.

They were still like that when Mrs. Taylor walked in and found them later, frozen and silent, eyes closed as if they were sleeping. Her heart leapt for a second, skipping a beat, bouncing up into her throat before slowly sliding back down.

Brian's forearm was touching Justin's bare skin where his shirt rode up, and his nose was pressed against Justin's cheek, right near his lips. Jennifer didn't know what to do or say. She twisted her fingers together, sweat like a slippery lube, and swallowed.

At some point, Justin opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling and absently, with his left hand, stroking Brian's arm. Lying there felt good, even though it shouldn't have. He knew Brian was just being melancholy and needed touch--Justin was and did as well--but being close like that made his stomach tingle.

He turned his head a little to the side, meaning to maybe give Brian a kiss, but as his eyes quickly scanned across the room, he saw a figure in the doorway that caused him to jump, lungs deflating into flat, pink balloons.

"Mom!" Justin yelled, twisting away from Brian as quickly as he could. His heart beat at his ribcage with a pair of boxing gloves, cheeks darkening to a deep, inflamed pink. "Oh my _God_! Get out!"

Jennifer apologized, though half-heartedly and fidgeting, looking everywhere but at her son's face.

"Go the fuck away," Justin whispered harshly so that only Brian could hear.

"You two want to come out with Molly and I?" Jennifer asked, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "We're going to the grocery store and around."

Brian looked at Justin, who widened his eyes in a big fat no and said, voice icy, "Go away."

Jennifer coughed, taking in the sight of her fourteen-year-old son stretched out on a bed with his stomach showing, and barely resisted the urge to demand that he and Brian come along.

"Well," she said, voice wavering slightly. "If you change your mind…"

Justin sighed, sitting up and knitting his eyebrows together in annoyance. "We won't."

*****

Jennifer and Molly left an hour later, and Brian and Justin left fifteen minutes after that, bus fare in their pockets and a bit of awkwardness itching under their skin. They caught the bus, played eleven games of Tic Tac Toe on an old brochure for the Warhol Museum, and then hopped off in the middle of Pittsburgh, four blocks away from the movie theatre.

 _The Mask of Zorro_ was playing, which neither of them had been looking forward to, but it was the only thing they were allowed to see that wasn't animated or idiotic.

"So how lame do you think this'll be on a scale of one to ten?" Brian asked, bumping Justin with his shoulder as they entered the theatre, clutching buckets of popcorn to their chests.

"Seven," Justin replied, spotting two seats and leading the way.

It turned out to be a little less lame than they'd thought, maybe a five, but honestly, they'd stopped paying attention a little more than halfway through when they spotted Mrs. Benson, their history teacher, making out with some gross guy that didn't appear to be her husband.

"I don't know if I'm disturbed or intrigued," Justin laughed on their way out of the theatre, dumping his only half-eaten popcorn in the trash bin and rubbing excess butter off on his pants.

"I _hope_ you're not intrigued," Brian said, pushing his friend along with his index finger.

"Why?"

"Just because."

Justin smiled, albeit secretly, shuffling his sandals across the popcorn-riddled floor and making his way toward the exit.

"Wait!" Brian grabbed his friend by the fabric of his T-shirt and pulled him back and over to the arcade area of the cinema.

"What?"

"Got any change?"

*****

This time they applied their tattoos with red faces and laughter at the kitchen sink.

"This is _so_ dumb," Justin said, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it onto the counter. "Where should I put it?"

Brian huffed a laugh, sliding the dragon tattoo out of its little protective cardboard folder and grabbing a green sponge from the side of the sink. "Lemme do it," he said, something mischievous in his eyes.

"Only if I can do you." Justin blanched, eyes widening. "I mean…"

"Shut up," Brian said with a eye roll and laugh, turning Justin around to get access to his shoulder.

*****

Mrs. Taylor and Molly arrived later on with two pepperoni pizzas and a bucket of ice cream.

The boys were watching television shirtless on the couch when they walked in, and Jennifer was compelled to freeze for a moment, heart leaping into her throat and Molly tugging on her blouse, asking for her lollipop.

"Um," she started, reaching up to rub a hand over her mouth. "Pizza?"

She made her way into the kitchen, spying two carelessly thrown T-shirts on the counter, and immediately her arms began to shake. What on earth had they been…?

"Check out my tattoo, Mrs. Taylor," Brian said, entering the room with a laugh, outstretching his arm and flexing his muscles, causing the slithery blue dragon to dance across his bicep.

Justin followed closely behind, not laughing, nervously moving over to grab his shirt.

*****

When Brian was in the shower that night, Jennifer slipped into Justin's room and shut the door behind her.

"I didn't say you could come in," Justin murmured brattily, dropping the art magazine he'd been reading and narrowing his eyes at his mother.

Mrs. Taylor sighed, moving over to her son's bed and taking a seat at the foot. "Well, I don't much care," she said, not unkindly but with an air of exhaustion.

"What do you want?"

"To talk."

"About what?" Justin closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing a hand across his forehead. He wasn't in the mood for this.

"Honey…" Jennifer began, tongue going dry. She knew exactly what she wanted to say, but had no idea how to say it. Crossing her legs at the ankles, she licked her lips and tried again. "Are you and Brian…?"

"No. Get out."

"Justin."

The boy squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't want to talk about this."

Jennifer rubbed at her throbbing temples and nodded. "I know you don't, and frankly, I don't either." Her voice was tired and lifeless. "But just tell me so that I can…"

"Eew!" Justin shrieked, cringing. "We're not having sex, if that's what you're asking."

"Okay." The woman swallowed, wringing her hands. "Well, are you…"

"Gay?"

The room went silent.

*****

When Brian entered Justin's room, borrowed sweats and T-shirt sticking to his damp skin, he found Justin staring blankly at the wall, a sketchpad draped across his lap.

"Hey," Brian said, pushing his wet hair back out of his face and moving over toward the bed.

Justin didn't say anything.

"You okay?"

"She knows."

"What?"

"Mom." Justin flopped backward onto his pillows, allowing his sketchbook to slide off his lap, off the bed and onto the floor. "She _asked me_ , Brian."

"And?"

Justin shrugged, running his hands across his face. "And…nothing. She said she just wanted to know for sure."

Brian swallowed, sitting down on the edge of the bed and shrugging. "That's good, though, right?"

"I don't know." A tear slid down Justin's face, and out of embarrassment, he reached up to swipe it away before Brian could see. "God," he said, taking a deep breath. "My dad would kill me."

Brian nodded, crawling up the bed and stretching out beside his friend. "But you don't see him anymore, so he can't."

"Yeah," Justin answered, carding his fingers through his hair.

Brian didn't say anything about his own father.

They lay there for a while, staring at the plastic stars on the ceiling that were invisible in the lamplight but would glow once the lights went out. Brian wanted to turn the lights out.

"Remember when we were little?" He asked, turning onto his side to watch Justin's face.

"When none of this shit mattered?"

"Yeah."

Justin swallowed hard and breathed out something shaky. Something uneven and cold and tearful. "I hate this," he said, eyes shining. "I hate it, I hate it, I hate it." His voice was quiet, prologue to a cry.

Brian nodded and leaned in to press his forehead against Justin's. "Me too," he said, wrapping his arm around Justin's waist. "Sometimes I want to be dead. I would rather be fucking _dead_ than..."

"Shut up," Justin said harshly, tears dripping down his face. "Don't ever say that."

"I can say it if I want."

"Fuck you, Brian."

They lay there for what felt like hours, breathing hot, sticky breath into each other's faces. Tears streamed down Justin's cheeks, but Brian didn't cry. His face was red and hazel eyes sparkled, but the dam never broke. He wouldn't let it.

*****

Justin showered in his mother's bathroom at seven. The water was hot, scalding, beating down on his body and bringing blood to the surface of his skin, dusting him pink and rendering him sleepy and sluggish, warm like a baby.

He pressed his forehead to the shower wall and closed his eyes, feeling the tears burn down his cheeks and snot plug up his nose. He didn't want this. He wanted it. He didn't fucking want it. He breathed deeply, shuddering in the steamy air, and shoved off the water with his fist.

Brian was on Justin's bedroom floor upstairs, clawing at his thighs with his fingernails.

*****

"What happened?" Justin asked later, sliding under the bed sheets and peering over at Brian, who had just pulled off his sweatpants. Pink lines slid down his legs, as if he'd been scratched with a rake.

"Nothing."

Justin sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and bit down. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"No," Brian answered coldly, joining Justin in bed and stretching out on his stomach. He folded the pillow up under him and buried his face in the warm cotton. It smelled like shampoo and fabric softener. It smelled like home.

Not his home, though.

Justin rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. The lamp was still on.

Brian told him to turn it off. "I like the dark," he said quietly.

"You can't see anything in the dark," Justin whispered, reaching over to switch off the lamp, anyway.

Brian nodded into the pillow. "I know."

And neither boy really knew how it happened, but minutes later, they were twisted together under the sheets, hands pushing up under oversized T-shirts and warm, bare legs tangling.

"I'm going to kiss you, okay?" Brian breathed, grabbing a lock of Justin's hair and squeezing the feathery strands in his fist.

Justin nodded, parting his lips and closing his eyes.

It was wet—all clumsy, teenaged tongues and mouths that couldn't yet fully follow the rhythm of desire. Justin decided that Brian tasted like shards of grass and cigarettes; Justin's tongue made Brian recall cotton candy and cinnamon gum.

"Don't hurt yourself again," Justin sighed, sliding his hands around to Brian's lower back and stroking across the smooth, flat expanse of skin at the top of his underwear.

Brian didn't say anything in reply. He wiggled a little against the other boy and sucked in a lungful of cold air that made his teeth tingle.

Justin froze for a moment, pushing his head back into the pillow and staring up into Brian's dark, glittering eyes.

"I hate you so much," he said, swallowing around his words and then Brian's mouth. He reached up to grasp the other boy's ears, petting them, folding them gently with his fingers, feeling the hotness in his crotch, the pressure, the hard-soft-white-light of him and Brian and movement.

His jaw was wet, lips red, nose pressing painfully against Brian's. And he was rocking, and Brian was rocking, and then they weren't so much kissing as staring at each other with eyes wide and mouths slightly open.

They were silent. Justin's shoulders shook, Brian was sweating, and then their eyes were squeezed shut and cheeks were flooding with a hot flush that grew from under their skin and covered their bodies in warmth.

*****

Brian coughed a little, supporting himself with a hand on either side of Justin's body, and tried to relax. His skin was hot and his underwear was damp, and he felt Justin underneath him, just as hot and just as damp.

He wanted to say something, but he didn't. He didn't know what he could have possibly said.

It was dark, the room was stuffy, and Justin smelled like salty sweat and French kisses.

Justin sighed a little, reaching up a hand to stroke Brian's eyebrows—first the left, then the right. His stomach was quivery and his legs were burning up, twisted with the other boy's under the covers where everything was sticky.

"I don't hate you," he said, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

Brian pressed his lips to the corner of Justin's mouth and closed his eyes.


End file.
